Ever notice what really gets them going at the Feast of the Annunciation? Not the divine ravaging of the child-bride’s womb, not her sheer bloody fear, but Mary’s flipping obedience. I’ve only ever seen one painting, by Lotto, I think, where Mary looks like she’s wondering what she’s eaten to be having this hallucination. The Archangel Gabriel even scares her cat. Otherwise, even the Pre-Raphaelites do obedient. Behold the handmaid of the Lord. Well, you can argue I might be that, but I’m not your bloody handmaid, you jerk, you in your blazer and bifocals, with your little plasters over your shaving cuts, dabbed into place by your ministering Mrs Minnie Mouse. There, you’ve set me off.
I stood and talked to the verger for a minute, a stocky chap in a livery gown who wanted to go on about the acoustics being poor, though I think not hearing me may have been a positive advantage for him. I’d had a glass of astringent Argentinian white and avoided the white-bread grated-cheese-and-pickle sandwiches – it’s not authentically C of E unless the catering’s third-rate – when our man from the FO slid sideways through bodies and stood in front of me. He was shorter than I’d expected. I noticed he had a paisleypatterned pocket square.
“I thought you won on points. And you might have had a knockout in the final round if the ref hadn’t stopped it.”
“Hardly a heavyweight contest,” I said, just graciously enough. “Actually, it was tennis. Do you think I’m a heavyweight then?”
“Only polemically.”
Toby introduced himself again and gave me a card.
“I was on the Middle East desk when we did some work with your people on Lebanon relief. I think we used to speak to Adrian. When were you out there?”
“Not long after Israel started closing its borders,” I said rather gratuitously. “Well done on that, by the way.”
I like getting to the point.
“We’re actually much more supportive than you might think. It’s the Christians that are the great concern out there now.”
“Why’s that? Aren’t they all Russians trying to get American passports?”
I wasn’t about to be patronised by a diplomat.
“We’re not too bothered who they are. We’re just anxious that they don’t get pushed out entirely. Christians provide the balance out there.”
“Is that right,” I said flatly. “Actually, I don’t think it matters if there are no Christians in Palestine, does it?”
“They’re crucial for peace. They have a role to play. You’ve had that role to play. You’ve always been there for us.” It was unclear whether he meant me specifically or Christians in general.
“There were no Christians at the crucifixion,” was all I said.
He was smiling again and that annoyed me.
“We’d like to talk to you more about it. I wonder if I can introduce you to my boss, Roger Passmore? Perhaps you know him. Can I reach you at the cathedral?”
“Sure, it’s the big building at the top of the hill,” I said.
He called the following day. Apparently contact had already been established with the Bishop’s office. That’s how we’d link up. The Bishop would bring us all into the loop. From such banality does evil grow.
5
The Old Deanery is tucked down one of the capillary lanes that track the sclerotic web of medieval thoroughfares to the south of the cathedral. It’s a gently beautiful seventeenth-century house behind in-and-out gates and a cobbled courtyard, with a twin flight of stairs up to its black front door. As with all these places, you buzz “Bishop’s Office” to be let in and there’s a large hall with grey carpet over an uneven floor, some iconic gifts and a model of the cathedral to keep you amused while you wait.
For the posh-boy visitors, it must be a bit like waiting to see the headmaster. I remembered that feeling even from my school and pressed my thighs together as I sat on a chair to see if I could still get that schoolgirl sensation in my hip muscles. His Cerberus, an elderly lady, more tired than retired, with dyed honey hair, occupied a desk at the front window of this room, through which you can wave rather than use the buzzer if she’s at her station. We’d exchange some listless pleasantries about the day, which drove me to take a pad with me and affect to make some notes of preparation.
The Bishop had just “had someone with him”, Cerberus said, and opened his heavy carved door for this previous guest, a grey little chap with dandruff on a shiny navy jacket with a tiny, smug Christian-fish badge on its lapel. The Bishop never gave it the “Have you met?” routine and we guests just smiled an acknowledgement of our change of shift, and this worthy administrator of some church-outreach initiative was gently dispatched to his further ministry, with the afterglow of a little episcopal affirmation.
“Natalie, how good to see you.”
He took my hand, less in a shake than an embrace. I wouldn’t have objected in this instance to the quickie English doublecheeker, because the Bishop didn’t occupy your space and knew when to abandon it. He was warm, without cloying. I liked him then. I don’t know if I could like him in the same way now. I don’t know that I could like anyone like that now. But actually I can’t be sure how much he knew of what he was letting me in for at that time, or even now.
His office is a modest room at the back, with fading magnolia walls above panelling, some intimidating bookcases, heavy embroidered vintage curtains, his laden desk facing a window on to the backyard. We sat in a three-piece by the marble fireplace. He always took the upright upholstery by the firedogs, back to the working door, his face lit from the only window. I took its opposite number, eschewing the threadbare and somewhat subjugating
